Jack could sing!  The thirty-something year-old man just showed up in my hometown one day.  No one knew who he was or where he was from; he had no family around that anyone was aware of.  He was a handsome man, of Native American descent.  In those less politically correct days, we called him an Indian.  He seemed proud of that.  The quiet fellow came to my church one Sunday and decided to stay.  The pianist in the church found him a job working in the school cafeteria, where she was the supervisor.  Jack got along with everybody there and always had a smile on his face.  He was a good worker too, so it seemed that he would be sticking around for awhile.  Everybody liked him.

When we sang the old hymns in church every Sunday, you couldn’t miss his rich baritone voice among the other folks.  He didn’t try to sing loud, but he was just enthusiastic.  The choir director recruited him for the church’s choral group, which was always short of men in the back row.  There were never more than three of us who came regularly.  Since the other two sang tenor and weren’t likely to be able to sing a lower part, I sang bass alone.  Badly.  Well, I wasn’t bad at it, my voice just wasn’t low enough. When he finally agreed to join us, Jack was wonderful to have in the section.  He didn’t read music, but he had a good ear and could follow my lead competently.  Pretty soon, he was singing the parts better than I did, his resonant voice booming out, while his face beamed out his joy at the music.  I loved having him there.  He was the perfect addition to the church and the choir.

Then one day, he didn’t show up for choir practice.  We asked his boss if she knew where he was and she shocked us by informing the group that he was in jail.  It seems that the FBI agents showed up in the school kitchen one day and took Jack into custody without too much trouble.  No, it wasn’t “Jack” they took into custody.  That wasn’t even his real name, but an alias.  He was one of the Bureau’s “most wanted” criminals and they had been looking for him for quite some time.  She just couldn’t figure it out.  He was just so nice.  How could he be a violent criminal?  I was more than a little shaken, also.  He had, after all, sat by me week after week, joking and teasing as we learned the bass parts of the anthems together.  I had been sitting beside a criminal, and a most-wanted one on top of that!  The idea was terrifying!

The church is full of hypocrites.  I have heard it all my life from my non-believing friends (and even a few who believe, but won’t attend).  It is the truth.  Jack is perhaps an extreme example.  He led us to believe that nothing was wrong in his world; led us to accept that he was what he appeared to us to be, a believer who wanted to worship with us.  His intent was to deceive.  He succeeded.  We looked at the cover of that book and declared the story trustworthy.  Nothing could have been further from the truth.

The church is full of hypocrites.  Jack was taken out of the church and to prison, and the church was still full of hypocrites.  There’s me for a start!  For some reason, I feel the need to build a facade, a false impression of well-being, being careful to disguise any cracks in the armor, paying special attention to areas which might draw the sharp condemnation of others.  It’s not only me, though.  When I said full, I meant that it was just that…full…of folks hiding things from each other.  Truth be told, we’re not good at confessing our faults to each other at all.  We’re a lot better at hiding them and deceiving any who are casual observers.

So…the church is full of hypocrites.  Many use that as an excuse to stay away.  “I wouldn’t go there.  There are so many hypocrites.”  But, those same people have no issues with shopping at the grocery store with the hypocrites who are there.  I see them every time I go shopping (…not a regular occurrence).  That fellow thumping the cantaloupe in fruits and vegetables – he’s having an affair and hiding it from his family; the lady pushing her cart full of canned goods through the cereal aisle – she gossips with every friend she meets while there; the young couple checking out with just five or six items –  they used drugs just before they came to buy food for their baby.  The list goes on…they’re all there in that meeting place too, rubbing shoulders almost as closely as we do in church.

You see, the real problem is that our nature, our sinful nature, leads us to be deceitful, no matter where we are.  We want people to think the best of us and we imagine that the way to do that is to pretend.  Integrity is not in plentiful supply, no matter if we’re in the church or in the marketplace.  We are, all of us, hiding something we don’t want others to know about.  That fact alone should make us more understanding, more forgiving when a fellow traveler is exposed for being the sinner that we all are, but we seem to think that we’re superior because we’ve been more successful in hiding our weakness.

I watched a conversation unfold in a public forum today (and held my tongue, believe it or not!).  I saw the phrases “judge not” and “let him without sin cast the first stone” bandied about a good bit.  I couldn’t help remembering the incident in which the Teacher used that second phrase.  His obvious intent was to help folks realize that we all suffer from the same ailments…sin and hypocrisy.  The accusers soon got the point and slunk away.  But here’s the other, perhaps more important, point: When they were alone, He assured the guilty party that He was not going to pronounce a sentence, but He also gave her some crystal clear instructions.  Go.  Sin no more.  Hypocrisy in others does not excuse the error in my heart.  The exposure of another person’s sin does not exempt me from dealing with mine.

Had enough preaching for one session?  I won’t be long now.  When Jack was arrested, years ago, I’m pretty sure those of us in the church missed the point.  Despite the fact that the deception of his cover story was laid clear and that the entire book no longer appeared quite as attractive, it seems that we learned nothing but the lesson about Jack (or whatever his name was).  We neglected to make any personal application.  I’ve spent most of my life since then working on my own cover story.  Most of us do.  The cover is what people see of us and we want, if nothing else, to be accepted and admired by our peers.  If we would spend the same amount of time getting the story inside in order and edited, the result would be very different.

I think that I’m going to attend to the grammar and punctuation on the inside of the book for awhile.  The storyline and details could stand to be put in order, too.  What I’m hoping is that the cover art will soon actually match what is to be read on the pages of the book.

The Author will have to see to that, but I’m confident I can trust Him to get it right.  Who knows, the resulting volume might even be a bestseller! 

“Then He said to them (the Pharisees), “You try to justify yourselves in front of people, but God knows your hearts.  What is highly valuable to people is detestable to God.”
(Luke 16:15)

“The best measure of a man’s honesty isn’t his income tax return.  It’s the zero adjust on his bathroom scale.”
(Arthur C Clarke~British Science Fiction author~1917-2008)

I made a new friend tonight!  Well, I think I did.  The message I received said, “So & So has accepted your friend request.”  That means I’ve got a new crony, a new sidekick, right?  I’m still struggling with this.  Is this really the way friendship works?  I find the name of someone I knew years ago and click on the link which invites me to “add as friend”.  And, then I wait.  Not exactly on pins and needles, but I just gave someone the opportunity to reject me.  Can I tolerate it if they don’t want me in their friends list?  Do I really want to give them that power over me?  As time passes and no response is received, is this cause to be saddened or depressed?  Have I really been rejected, or could this just be someone who never checks their account?  It’s a release of emotion when the message finally arrives.  I breathe a sigh of relief and send a message thanking them for their magnanimity.  After all, they’ve just given me access to a part of their life and I to them.  We’re Friends!

Again, I ask.  Is this the way it works?  Wouldn’t it be better if we could just be Facebook Acquaintances?  Honestly, many of the folks in my “friend” list could more accurately be placed in that category.  I want to keep a relationship with them, but we’re never going to be best buds.  We’ll do the online equivalent of the nod and a wave to acknowledge each other’s existence, just as I would if I met someone on the street, commenting on happy occasions and also on sad ones, but we’ll not be close.  We’ll not actually be “friends”.

Don’t get me wrong.  I really enjoy Facebook.  It has given me a chance to make contact with many people who had dropped out of my life, people whom I enjoy knowing.  I count it a privilege to have grown up with many of them, but even as children, we weren’t bosom buddies.  We shared common experiences in school or church and we have a history in each other’s lives.  I wouldn’t trade my past with them for anything and I’m grateful for the means to reconnect.  That said, true friendship normally runs a little deeper.  And, you don’t become friends with the click of a computer key on one end of the Internet and a reply on the other end.

The gift of true friendship is a rare one.  It is a gift and not something you request, as you would with a shopping list or a Christmas list.  Friends gravitate to each other for various reasons, but we stay friends because we share a bond, a love for each other that won’t be broken by time, or distance, or age.  There is a Proverb in the Bible that warns us that a man with many friends often comes to ruin.  Then it tells of the kind of friend that I want, one who sticks closer than a brother.  But, don’t think this is about someone who never leaves your side physically.

When I talk about true friends, it doesn’t have to mean people who are geographically close.  I don’t even intend to say that we have to have frequent communication.  I have one friend, with whom I grew up, who comes to visit from his home eight hundred miles away once every four or five years and I visit him just about that often too.  We don’t talk on the phone constantly or send emails even frequently, but when we get together, our friendship is unchanged from 10, 20, even 30 years ago.  We laugh, talk, even cry together, with no sense of discomfort, no reticence to speak openly about the things that close friends talk about.  We didn’t find this relationship by clicking on an icon (we’re not even Facebook friends), and our sense of closeness isn’t compromised by absence or lack of constant contact.  True friendships last.  They transcend the miles and the years, and they overlook the changes that inevitably come in our lives.

I’m not advocating for boycotting social media, not even wanting to slander it.  I am suggesting that we need to be sure we understand the important, even essential relationships in our lives and not cheapen them by an imitation, blowing-kisses kind of connection.  I’ll continue to click on the “request friend” button, but I’ll not be fooled into thinking that a friendship can be achieved as cavalierly as  that.

I kind of like the way the singer, Michael W Smith, expressed it a few years ago when he sang, “Friends are friends forever”.  Give me a hand-shake and a bear-hug from an old friend and I’ll be content.

Or, you could try sending that friend request.  You never know… 

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”
Pooh thought for a little. “How old shall I be then?”
“Ninety-nine.”
Pooh nodded. “I promise,” he said.
(A. A. Milne~The House at Pooh Corner)

(originally posted 1/7/11) 

The road trip had begun mere hours before.  The Lovely Lady and I, along with our two children, the oldest almost ten, were headed to California.  My parents were living out there, caring for my aging grandfather, so we thought it would be nice to spend a week with them.  My sister was going along also; we would pick her up along the way, since she was flying up from south Texas.  We had done this once before, but there was a new wrinkle this time.  The children had made a request.  They wanted to visit Carlsbad Caverns “on the way”.  Even though the caves weren’t really on the route from Arkansas to California, we decided that we would do it.  Actually, we led them to believe that it wouldn’t be possible, but planned to surprise them.  For this to work, we would have to travel all night, since these bright kids couldn’t be fooled if there were road signs along the way indicating that we were approaching the area.  An all-nighter?  Sure.  For a nighthawk like me, that would be no problem.  So, off we went.

After picking up their aunt in Oklahoma, we headed down the road.  As the sun went down and darkness fell, the kids started to nod and before we knew it, they were sound asleep.  The Lovely Lady had opted to sit in back with them, leaving my sister to ride beside me in the front passenger seat.  Finding the correct highway to detour off the interstate we were on, we cut south from the westward route, heading for the Guadalupe Mountains of southeastern New Mexico.  There was very little traffic, especially as we got into and past the middle of the night.  The ride was somewhat boring, but I had no problem staying awake, even though it appeared that everyone else in the car was sleeping.  The two-lane highway widened into four lanes, and I dutifully moved into the right lane.  But, after several miles of rough expansion joints and too many patches in the pavement, I decided, since there was no other traffic around, that I would move into the left-hand lane and ride on the smoother pavement there.

My illusion of everyone being asleep suddenly disappeared as the rider in the passenger seat reached over and slapped me repeatedly on the shoulder and arm.  I nearly shouted at her in my surprise.  “Why did you do that?”  I was expecting to hear that she had had a bad dream or possibly, being awakened by the rough road, had been disoriented, but that wasn’t it.  She had been awake the whole time and, noting that I had moved across the lane marker with no vehicle in front of me, assumed that I was asleep at the wheel and needed to be roused immediately.  Oh, I was roused all right!  Eventually, my heart rate returned to normal and the trip proceeded with no more excitement.

We laughed about the event and, after a very satisfying visit to the caverns, continued on to our ultimate destination in the San Joaquin Valley of California.  A week later though, that event was brought back to mind in a surprising way.  We were headed back home to Arkansas on Interstate 40, somewhere in Arizona, when we were passed by a car moving much faster than we.  This wasn’t all that unusual, but what was unexpected was the fact that, as the speeding car approached a curve in the road up ahead, the driver didn’t turn with the road.  Instead, he plowed into the median on his left, leveling the reflective markers as he went.  Several broke off and went flying into the air.  I was hard pressed to dodge them, but managed somehow.  Mere seconds later, the errant car came to a stop dramatically, the rear end rising up in the air as the front bumper plowed down into the earth.  It didn’t flip, but the car had sustained serious damage.  We quickly pulled over and ran to check on the driver, who admitted that he had fallen asleep at the wheel.  He was alone in the car and accepted a ride to a gas station less than a mile away, but refused any further help and was reluctant for me to call the highway patrol, which I did anyway.  When I turned away from the phone, he was nowhere to be seen, perhaps like my friend of last week, having reasons known only to himself for avoiding the police.

I have had time since that trip, many years ago, to think about sleeping at the wheel and the advantage of having a big sister.  Or anyone else, for that matter, who will ride along with me and keep their eyes peeled for danger signs.  You see, I really didn’t need her to slap me and wake me up, but I’m glad to know that she was there.  She read the signs wrong that time.  Perhaps the next time, I will actually need the help.  The driver of that other car certainly could have used the extra pair of eyes.  The surprise that I experienced in my car as my sister attempted to help was nothing compared to the look of stark terror I saw in that man’s eyes as I opened the passenger door on his totaled car to see if he was injured.  An early warning system could have saved him a world of trouble, from the loss of his car to potential deprivation of his freedom, if he was indeed fleeing from the authorities.

I complain frequently about warning systems.  The seat belt buzzer annoys, the dashboard lights warn of non-existent issues.  The smoke alarm at my house is set off by scorched food (an infrequent occurrence here) and the metal detector at the airport security checkpoint is frustrating in its lack of accuracy.  As much as we don’t like to admit it, all these and more are intended to help and not to hinder.  Their over-vigilance irritates, but when they do the job they are designed to do, all of them are invaluable.  We are grateful when they warn of imminent danger.

I think frequently of the Creator’s words, as he explained the need for a companion for the first man.  “It is not good for him to be alone.”  God knew that the man needed help, not only to assist in bearing burdens, but also to be an “extra pair of eyes”.  I’m fairly certain that the pair were supposed to keep each out of the original trouble too, but they certainly flubbed that assignment.  We’re still bearing the consequences today.  Perhaps that too, should be a word to the wise.  We should be looking out for each other, giving each other warning of impending danger.  When we are silent as our family and friends rush headlong into jeopardy, we bear some blame.  Our responsibility to aid and counsel each other is clear.  The instruction to love our neighbor as ourselves isn’t just about touchy-feely emotions, but is about tangible, palpable care for others around us.

I’m grateful for friends who have had the courage to warn of danger ahead, even when I was determined to ignore the warning signals.  I’m also thankful for family members who care enough to stay awake with me and watch.

The slapping, I can do without.  Maybe we can work out a better warning system before the next time.

“Two people are better than one, because they can help each other succeed.  If one person falls, the other can reach out and help.  But someone who falls alone is in real trouble.”
(Ecclesiastes 4:9,10 NLT) 

“One timely cry of warning can save nine of surprise.”
(Joshua Thompson)

The black dog stands in the middle of the yard and barks…at nothing.  It is often so, these days.  I stick my head out the door and shout at him to stop, and he obeys…momentarily.  Before I can sit back down in my easy chair, he is in full voice again.  I remark to the Lovely Lady how much I enjoyed the winter season so much better.  She laughs.  “You remember that it’s cold in the winter, right?”  I reconsider the statement and explain that I liked it better when the dogs stayed in their warm shed, instead of barking at the wind.  Winter, I will never love.  The cold chills me to my core, and it is dark.

But, Spring has taken hold of the earth once more in that uncontrollable and tumultuous way which only Spring has.  The grass and flowering bushes have remembered what it is they are created for; springing into action, aided by the warmth and the moisture which their Gardener has sent.  The leaves of all the trees seem determined to make up for lost time, since they had to wait for the first blush of buds and seeds to be dropped.  Their branches are now exploding with all shades of green, catching the gusts and waving in all their glory, almost like victory pennants in the wind.   And, every dog in the neighborhood seems to imagine prey to be pursued with each blade of grass that shifts in the breeze; the scrape of limb on limb in the trees is enough to drive them mad with excitement.  I have told you that I love the Spring, but this barking?  This is enough to make a man repent of all such rash statements!

Oh, to be fair, there are times when the daft creatures have actually spotted something worth announcing.  Squirrels in the trees above torment them continually, flipping their tails and “chuck, chuck, chucking” their disdain.  The birds actually seem to alight just over their heads and chirp teasingly at them.  They have circled the trees endlessly, alternating between barking and standing on hind legs, reaching as high at they can toward their annoying tormentors.  It’s all to no avail.  At no time have they been able to reach the prey, nor have they even quieted the taunts for more than a moment at a time.

The bewildering wrinkle in all of this is the puppies’ food.  No, I don’t expect them to bark at it, but you would think that with all their vigilance, they would guard the one tangible asset they actually have, wouldn’t you?  Yet, day after day, I feed them at the back door, placing voluminous amounts of puppy food in their dishes.  And, day after day, they pick at it for a moment and then go to a different corner of the yard, to bark and sleep, completely ignoring the flocks of birds that descend from the treetops to eat their kibbles and carry them off, one by one.  They care not one whit for the thief that they might be able to apprehend, but remain constantly alert for the sneak that might alight in their trees, far beyond any hope of capture.  Stupid creatures!

I say the words and immediately, I find myself realizing how closely I resemble the silly canines, in spite of my annoyance with them.  It becomes clear that I also don’t always know the difference between the wind and reality.  I chase shadows and prey which will never come within my grasp.  Why is it that we are so quick to bark our alarm at imminent danger in locales we will never visit, but allow the enemies to creep into our own home and take the food off of our table?  How is it possible that we lose perspective as easily as this?  I hope it doesn’t make you angry that I say “we” when I speak of these things.  But, if you will take a moment to consider, you will surely be able to identify with the dogs, or if it makes you more comfortable…with me.  You know of situations, probably ongoing, about which you exclaim loudly, realizing that you can have no possible influence on the problem.  And, you can undoubtedly think of issues which could be confronted and corrected, but you can’t be bothered.  So, you bark at shadows, and chase the wind, wasting time and effort that can ill afford to be expended without results.

I’m grateful that we humans have the ability to reason, the means to make changes.  Our Creator intends for us to use our superior intellect to effect change in the world, and as we seek to bring glory to Him, we will take steps to do more than bark wildly at things which we cannot change.  It’s essential that we quit wasting valuable time and focus on the situations in which we can actually make a difference.

I’m thinking that this barking at the wind might not be the best use of my time.  I’m also guessing that you’re ready to quit running in circles too.  Maybe together, we can do less barking and more biting.  It’s worth a shot.

“Be clear minded and alert.  Your enemy, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.”
(I Peter 5:8)

“Being busy does not always mean real work.  The object of all work is production or accomplishment and to either of these ends there must be forethought, system, planning, intelligence, and honest purpose, as well as perspiration.  Seeming to do is not doing.”
(Thomas Alva Edison~American inventor~1847-1931)

I’ve never been good at puzzles.  But, I’ve told you that before.  I guess the visual acuity may be at fault, but really, it’s more a problem with perception (and maybe stubbornness).  I’m always trying to fit the square peg in the round hole, always “getting a bigger hammer” instead of finding the right part. 

I saw a little of myself in the third grandchild some time ago, as she worked on a puzzle.  As I sat and assisted with the jumbo pieces (the only kind I’m borderline competent at), she kept trying to pound the pieces together.  Despite evidence to the contrary, she was convinced that any piece could be made to fit in any spot.  It took a little sleight-of-hand to get the correct pieces in front of her without letting her see that I was removing the ones she had placed down, ready to force the bewildering tabs into the perplexing holes.  I for one, understand the problem completely and would readily advise that all the puzzles in the house be destroyed, if it weren’t for her grandmother hovering nearby.  I live in a puzzle milieu, surrounded by the confusing contrivances, and I’m not likely to escape them soon.  Also, the children love them, so I may have to tolerate them; may even have to participate in the madness occasionally.

On a different day, I again saw myself briefly in the youngest girl, as we built a tower of plastic interlocking blocks together.  These are toys from our children’s early years, still surviving and still being loved by young children almost thirty years from their first appearance.  Something like giant Legos, they  have two tenons side by side on top which go into the matching receivers on the lower side of the next block up.  The sweet little girl understood the basic concept; she just lacked the engineering theory to understand the fit and finish.  Because of this, she consistently attempted to connect either the tenons to the tenons, or vice versa.  After endeavoring unsuccessfully to demonstrate and instruct in the proper method of construction, I found it easier to use a similar sleight-of-hand as with the puzzle to turn them around as she pushed them together.

On a Sunday afternoon nearly a year ago, as I was privileged to stand in terror before a group of kids at church, the Lovely Lady assisted as I demonstrated this principle once more.  I stood with the clarinet, she with her flute, and we told the children of her desire to play clarinet music, instead of flute music.  As they listened with increasing distaste, we both played the instruments using the same music.  Soon, many were covering their ears, while others grimaced and still others looked at each other exclaiming at the awful cacophony.  The two similar sized and shaped instruments are not tuned to the same pitch, making it essential that they use different music from which to play.  Like the puzzle pieces and the building blocks, the similarities are deceiving.  They are not designed to perform the same part, nor can they successfully be made to do so.

Well, a fine lesson for children, you may say, but what has that to do with us as adults?  I’m not sure about you, but I’ve made a lifetime avocation of attempting to fit different pieces into the same holes, both for myself and for others.  I’ve worked at jobs that were a horrible fit, as well as at one in particular which remains a perfect fit.  I tried to push my children into places that didn’t work for them, learning (slowly) that while they may have some of my features, they are very much their own persons, with their own ideas and vision.  I’ve felt the need to convince many within my voice to share my opinions on any number of matters, only to realize that I interact best with those who have come to their conclusions through their own experiences and intelligent discernment.

Does this mean that we can’t fit in with others who aren’t just like us, that we need to keep to folks who resemble ourselves? No, not at all!  The orchestra can only make its best music when all the divergent instruments, with their various shapes, methods of generating sound, and different keys, come together as a group, each playing their own part and not all reading the same notes.  The music is sweeter and fuller for having the amazing diversity, with each taking responsibility for their role in the whole.  The tower is built as the different parts fit together, but not at all, if like is placed next to like; the puzzle completes its beautiful picture as very different shapes meld into one large entity, each piece fitting with others next to it.

Just as the body is made up of many parts, so unlike that they would seem completely foreign if we weren’t so familiar with them, so our families, our communities, our churches are formulated.  Just look at the foot and then at the ear.  Do you see any resemblance?  But, if the ear doesn’t do its job, the foot takes us into dangerous situations, likely to achieve great harm to the whole body.  We need each other and every one of us is important to the whole.  Is that just some feel-good mumbo-jumbo; just me being maudlin?  No, it comes straight from the Bible and is borne out again and again in our experience.  Even in our faith, we have different gifts, different parts to play.

Find your part and play it.  Don’t play off of my music; it’s probably not in the right key for you.  But I’m hoping I can play in harmony with you.  It will sound much better that way.

“…so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other.  If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.”
(I Corinthians 12: 25, 26~New International Version)

“Where there is unity, there is always victory.”
(Publilius Syrus~Roman author~1st Century BC)

(Previously posted in April of 2011)

“…and justice for all.”   How many times have I repeated those words?  As a child, it was a daily ritual to stand and face the American flag, placing my right hand over the general locale of my heart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  I thought about those last three words the other day for awhile and I’ve about decided that I’m not in favor of that.  Okay…hear me out before you go ballistic on me.  I know it’s un-American to not fight for justice.  But, I’m coming to believe that there may be a better way.  Let’s just say that justice is not what I hope to receive myself.  Let me give you a bit of background for my thought process. 

One of my many money-raising ventures as a boy was to deliver papers.  When I say papers, I don’t mean the daily kind with news in them; the ones for which the customer paid and for which the delivery boy received the princely profit of ten cents per paper.  I mean the “Town Crier”.  This weekly advertising circular was delivered across my hometown by an army of children, boys mostly, for the meager price of one-half of a cent per paper (probably more as time went by).  In addition, the paper could not be thrown from the comfortable seat of a bicycle, as with the daily, but had to be walked to every single door.  We weren’t even allowed to drop it on the porch.  It had to be placed on the door latch or knob.  This meant that the youth delivering this particular paper had to roll each one and then walk his/her entire route, going up to every single door and leaving the paper.  All of that to earn one cent for every two delivered.  We were trusted to deliver all of the papers we picked up from the printing office, as well as following the delivery instructions to the letter.  The reputation of the publisher depended on us.

I will never forget the day the boy delivering the papers on the adjacent route to mine was fired.  It seems that, while I and many others across town were trudging along, delivering the papers one to a house, on the door latch, exactly as directed (250 times for me!), Skip figured out that this wasn’t working out for him.  Halfway through his route, the Free Methodist Church sat empty every week as he went by.  Cutting through the church’s yard one afternoon, he noticed an opening in the foundation.  Curious, he squatted down and peered into the darkness.  It was dark under the building, but suddenly there was a light burning brightly in his brain!  Every week thereafter (until he was fired), he delivered a few strategic papers to their destinations and then turned his feet toward the church, pausing as he passed to throw half or more of his bag’s contents in the crawl space under the old brick structure.  For weeks, the young charlatan was paid for papers he never delivered, until one day a plumber was called to take care of a problem at the church.  This required a trek under the building right through the opening which was now full of stashed circulars!  A call was made to the publisher and the day of reckoning arrived.  Skip was now unemployed, having stolen numerous dollars of Mr.Offerman’s money and deprived his advertisers of the benefits they should have received from the exposure the papers afforded them.

Some of the rest of us who had done our jobs by the book for the pittance we received in remuneration were angry.  We wanted justice!  This cheater should have to give back the money he was paid for delivering those papers.  They had the evidence!  Just count the papers he had discarded and make him pay that back!  Firing him wasn’t justice; it just freed him from future labor and allowed him to keep the profit from his past fraud.

As I contemplated the meaning of justice the other day, another scene was brought to memory.  Around the same time frame, it involved two young men, one of whom shall remain anonymous.  These young men wandered around the neighborhood one afternoon, curious about the rumblings and vibrations caused by earth being moved, and the emissions of diesel smoke from an old vacant field nearby.  They had played there many times over the years and it appeared that some unknown landowner had decided to capitalize on his property.  The graders and backhoes were hard at it, knocking down trees, skimming the dirt off the high spots and filling the low-lying areas.  In short, the boys’ playground was soon to become a housing development.  And, they weren’t happy.  That evening, after the work site had been vacated by the machine operators, the boys returned.  A pocket knife cut a gas line or two, oil dipsticks were removed and thrown into the grass, perhaps even a little dirt found its way into the oil fill tube.  And, as one of the young men broke out a taillight with a large rock, a neighbor appeared at his door to investigate the noise.  The jig was up!  Police reports were filed and the two boys were picked up after school a day or two later to answer some questions down at the police station.  Those of us on the seedier side have a phrase for what we did there.  We sang like canaries.

The owner of the equipment declined to file charges, only requesting that his repair expenses be reimbursed.  I don’t know about the other young man, but I spent the next two years delivering papers and mowing lawns to pay back that debt.  I’ll never forget my Dad’s reaction.  I expected the worst.  Dad could ply the belt with the best of them and this one was bound to be a doozy!  But as I sat on the edge of the bed in his bedroom, he just sat beside me and looked at me.  The hurt written in his eyes and on his face was a worse punishment than any spanking I had ever received.  But, no remonstration came, just his sad voice telling me about the financial agreement we were making and then, it was over.

Mercy.  Not justice; but mercy.  Mercy from a stranger whose property was put out of commission by my shenanigans.  Mercy from a father who was devastated by my actions.  Justice would have been fair, would have been equitable.  But they chose mercy.  I was grateful beyond words.

I must admit that I have not always remembered that lesson well.  As an adult, one day my father and I sat listening to a news story about some young men who had committed a crime.  “They should try them as adults and throw the book at them!” I exclaimed disgustedly.  The quiet answer came from across the room,  “I’m glad there was a man who didn’t think that way when you were a boy.”  His answer has remained with me to this day.  We who have been forgiven have an obligation to forgive, but frequently are the first to demand justice.

Am I preaching again?  I guess I am.  Have you gotten the point yet?  Okay then, one more thought and the sermon is over.  In God’s system, justice is the standard, but mercy gets the last word.  It’s not a bad example for us to follow in our personal lives.  I’ll leave the reader to figure out how to apply the principle.  

And, I’m pretty sure that I won’t be able to run for president now that I’ve admitted to my sordid and lawless past.  My disappointment is profound.

“Mercy there was great and grace was free.
Pardon there was multiplied to me.
There my burdened soul found liberty,
At Calvary.”
(William Newell~ American hymn writer~1868-1956)

“Reason to rule, but mercy to forgive; the first is law; the last, prerogative.”
(John Dryden~English poet and dramatist~1631-1700)

Original post April, 2012

The guitar sits in the repair section of my music store, waiting.  This procrastinator is completely flummoxed this time.  Three weeks ago, the electric guitar made its way, finally, onto my work bench.  When he brought it to me, the owner was unfazed by my suggestion that the delay might be two or three weeks.  He has other guitars and doesn’t need this one desperately, so a few weeks delay while a new pickup was installed wouldn’t be any problem.  That was six weeks ago.

When the guitar went on my work bench, it was because I realized that the deadline was looming.  Two weeks had passed, with a barely heightened sense of urgency.  But, three weeks…that was the promised delivery date.  So dutifully, a day or two before the deadline, I moved the guitar from its, by now, accustomed place on the back counter to the cluttered bench.  This job would be quick and painless.  It was neither.  Oh, the old pickup removal was fast and easy.  Screws removed, solder joints heated and wires taken loose, then the wire was pulled out of the cavity which led between the pickup and the controls.  It was out!  No sweat.  Then I realized, too late, that the cavity was crammed with more wires than is customary for its size.  The new pickup came out of the box and the truth really hit me.  There is no way this wire will fit through that cavity!  The diameter was much larger than the one I had just removed.  The cavity would have to be expanded.  This meant that all the other wires would have to be temporarily de-soldered and removed, the cavity drilled out, and then the wires could be repositioned and heated to solder them into place once more.  I don’t have the time to do this job.

The guitar sits in the repair section of my store, waiting.  Oh, I will finish the job, but just not today…probably not even tomorrow. Perhaps some more convenient time will present itself, eventually.

My mind is drawn back to a Saturday afternoon in South Texas, many years ago.  The fourteen year-old boy has decided that he needs to take a little more interest in helping his fellow man, so he has agreed to participate in a March of Dimes Walkathon.  He dutifully asks a few adults for sponsorships and receives pledges amounting to the staggering sum of twelve dollars.  He will walk some twenty-one miles on this warmer than normal October day, but it is a distance he is sure he will have no problem completing.  Although not a competitive event, he still has visions of finishing before any of the other hundred or so walkers.  The prospect of his name being mentioned on the local popular music station is enough to fuel the dream.  On the appointed day, the walk begins at the local high school, and a large contingent of older people are soon left far behind.  Along the way, four or five young men join together with our hero and they buy into the dream of the young man, jogging along with him in an attempt to be the first to finish.  Miles before the goal, most of them have dropped out, or at least slowed to a walk and are left behind.  Our protagonist outlasts and pushes past the remaining two of them to finish the course before anyone else that day.  The leg cramps and intense nausea he was experiencing took most of the glitter off the victorious moment, but his dream was realized and his name was announced as the first to complete the walkathon. 

One would think that it would be something about which a boy of fourteen would brag.  And, so I did…for a few days.  But, no more.  You see, the walk wasn’t completed until the goal was achieved.  The goal was for the funds to be put into the coffers of the March of Dimes, so they could be used in their fight against birth defects.  But there was no glory in collecting pledges from people, so I was derelict in accomplishing that.  Only after weeks of badgering by the school sponsor of the walkathon, was the collection complete.  It was even a couple of weeks after that when the money was finally handed over to the organization.  I couldn’t be bothered.  There would be no spotlight, no microphones being stuck in front of me by a DJ from the radio station, so the goal was actually reached many days after most had completed the actual purpose of the exercise.  I didn’t finish first at all!

One of my kid’s favorite childhood movies was about that astounding Disney nanny, Mary Poppins.  She introduced her young charges to a game she called, “Well Begun is Half Done.”  When he first hears of the “game”, one of her wards, Michael, mutters rightly enough, “I don’t like the sound of that.”  Though there is some truth in Poppins’ assumption, I would add (from long experience) that oftentimes jobs that are started without a proper resolve take even longer to finish.

I cannot begin to count the number of times that unfinished jobs have remained for months, even years, on my schedule.  I have perfected the art of procrastination.  That does not make it any more comfortable.  I am not satisfied with this pattern in my life.  I would tell you that it is going to change, if it’s the last thing I do, but that wouldn’t really be a step in the right direction, would it?  The habits of a lifetime are hard to break.  But, I very much want to have them broken.

So I resolve.  But, years of abandoned resolutions lie behind.  I still resolve.  Now, I don’t want to apply the Word improperly, but the Apostle tells us that “…He who began a good work will complete it until the day…”  He is speaking of righteousness, but I’m starting to grasp the concept that the whole man, with his whole witness, is involved in the work which is being done in us.  If God will not leave that work unfinished, it seems to follow that we need to carry our own work through to completion, also.

Who knows, that guitar may be back together in a day or two.  I started the job; I have confidence that it can be finished, too.  I’ll let you know…

“Brothers, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on to the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”
(Philippians 3:13-14 NASB)

“It’s the job that’s never started that takes longest to finish.”
(Sam Gamgee, quoting his “gaffer” in “The Lord Of The Rings” by J.R.R.Tolkien)

The babies were sleeping; one of them, simply because she just normally dropped off about this time of the evening; the other for some mysterious and miraculous reason.  It was after all, his common practice to stay awake half the night, demanding attention from either his mother or me.  Whatever the cause, there was no way that I wanted either to awaken at this moment.  But I needed to practice my horn.  A wedding performance was fast approaching and the preparation opportunities were few and were spread far apart.  I had to put in my time to be ready to play.  I knew what had to be done, but my brain rebelled.  “You’ll just have to use it,” the Lovely Lady encouraged me.  “I hate that thing!”  I blurted, bringing a rustle of bedclothes from the next room, as the infant in the nursery jumped at the sound of my voice.  Lucky for me, he settled back down again, but I knew my objection was for naught, and I soon found myself sitting in the kitchen, practicing silently…almost.

The hated thing was a practice mute.  My French Horn is normally not a quiet instrument, but necessity being what it is, I had purchased the mute a few months before for just such an eventuality.  The mute had a cork ring encircling the cone-shaped nose, where it was held in the bell of the horn.  The cork ring completely stopped any air from escaping, as the horn was played, effectively silencing the noise.  It was a device which was guaranteed to torture any horn-player.  You see, contrary to what parents of beginners on the instrument believe, the tones of the horn are amazingly mellow and inherently pleasant, with the pleasure increasing as the player improves his breath control and support of the air pushed through the instrument.  The practice mute ruins that completely.  The natural tone emanating from the mute is almost inaudible and amazingly edgy.  To top it off, no single note that sounds is in tune with the one played a second before.  It is a completely unsatisfactory experience, as the back pressure developed by the sealed up horn builds uncomfortably.

As I sat by myself, my chin dejectedly resting on the lead-pipe of the horn, I had a sudden flashback.  I remembered Mr Marlar, my horn teacher from years before, resting the back of his hand on my stomach as I played a passage for him.  I was surprised, to say the least.  Not one of my teachers had ever touched me on the stomach.  What he said changed the way I have played from that day, though.  “You think the sound of the instrument comes from between your lips and the bell of the horn.  It doesn’t.  The real tone of the horn comes from inside you.  It starts at your diaphragm and goes from there.  The throat, the tongue, the mouth…they’re all secondary to the support in your core.  The horn is even less important than any of them.”  He smacked my upper belly and said, “It all starts right here.” 

Now, a few years later, as the light dawned once more, I found myself concentrating, not on the sound from the blocked bell of the horn, but on the basics; support at the diaphragm, opening the throat, shaping the mouth.  I got a huge surprise!  The tone of that closed up instrument improved in an amazing way; the notes fell into tune with each other; I was quickly well on my way to being ready to play for the event.  A day or two later, when I was able to practice without worrying about the noise level, I got another surprise.  Without the practice mute, and still remembering the basics, with the tone of the horn coming from deep down inside of me and not merely from the horn itself, the improvement was almost miraculous and mind-boggling.  I don’t think I had ever sounded so good.  Who would have thought it?

Recently, the Lovely Lady and I sat and watched a televised performance of a legendary violinist.  Itzak Perlman is recognized by many to be one of the finest talents to come out of the second half of the Twentieth Century.  Perlman is Israeli born, having been stricken with polio as a child, necessitating the use of crutches for walking.  He is by now, an old man, and has earned the privilege of coasting through his golden years.  He does not.  If he were arrogant and condescending about his stature, no one could blame him.  He is not.  As we sat and took in the beautiful, emotion-ridden performance, I couldn’t help but be struck by one thing; This man plays from someplace deeper than his bow and violin.  The performance doesn’t come from his instrument.  True, he plays an incredibly costly Stradivarius violin, built during that legendary maker’s best years.  The bow which he draws across the strings of that valuable violin would cost well more than the most expensive instrument I have ever sold in my music store.  But, when this master plays, I believe that he could be playing on the cheapest of Chinese imports, with a warped and unbalanced bow, and lesser players would still rave at the resulting beauty.  The music comes from someplace deep down inside him.  And, it’s even deeper than the core that my teacher encouraged me to develop.  That was simply a mechanical function, learned by repetition and concentration.  When Mr. Perlman performs, the music is from his soul.  I watched his body, crippled as it is, move in concert with the strokes of the bow, in rhythm to the orchestra and its conductor.  Across his face, the joy that comes from doing that which he was created to do is unmistakable.  Soul and body respond to the call and the result is a pure delight, both to the performer and to the audience.  As the performance draws to an end,  and the crowd stands, as one man, to its feet, cheering wildly, I surreptitiously wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes.  I wouldn’t want the Lovely Lady to see and think me unmanly.  (I think she may already have noticed.)

I don’t believe that Mr. Perlman is the only person who performs from his very soul.  Not by a long shot.  I actually am confident that all of us do (or are meant to do) that very thing.  We certainly don’t have to be musicians to experience it.  We don’t necessarily draw the performance out in front of millions of adoring fans, perhaps don’t even have one adoring fan.  But, what is in our soul and heart will come out, because it is how we are put together.  My mind springs to the couple who faithfully teaches young children, year after year, loving every single one who is in their care, however briefly.  I’m remembering a pastor who preached and sang until just weeks before he left this earth, singing his beloved old hymns in his deep, bass voice.  There are teachers, and craftsmen, and even janitors who draw the joy in what they do from deep within.  I am also aware that many who work at jobs do so only to exist.  The job is not who they are, is not what is truly in their souls.  Even so, they find avenues to express their hearts.  I’m aware that the way in which our souls are expressed can also change drastically throughout our lives.  Many artists don’t ever lay brush to canvas until they are old; writers frequently blossom in their golden years.  In some ways, this harkens back to a subject I wrote about recently.  Gifts are given to us so that they may be shared; not hidden, nor hoarded. 

Our Creator has made us unique.  None of us is just like another.  I love the collage that the Great Artist is assembling.  Gifts that are as dissimilar as they are significant abound.  And, as His artists, we stand out as bright spots on the canvas.  A city on a hill cannot be hidden. 

Shine, then, as lights in the universe.  Show the world your soul!

“Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.”
(Oscar Wilde~Irish poet~1854-1900)

“I believe that God has instilled in us a craving, a deep desire to run with Him on a fantastic adventure, yet many of us crawl along in life without even a glimpse of our hidden passion.”
(Bryan Davis~Author of Christian fantasy stories)